


The Once and Future Headmaster

by allthegoodnamesaretakendammit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Ableism, Age Swap, Coming of Age, Dumbledore has a cruuuuuuuuush, Fix-It, Gardening, Headmaster Potter, M/M, Student Dumbledore, Time Travel, buckle up it’s gonna be a weird ride, endgame Harry/Albus when Albus is much older, it’s all very classy and chaste I promise, mention of Ariana’s childhood trauma, the appropriate dose of angst, the year was 1891
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 15:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12135204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthegoodnamesaretakendammit/pseuds/allthegoodnamesaretakendammit
Summary: Never has there been a more hopeless crush.





	The Once and Future Headmaster

**Author's Note:**

> God bless my betas.

 

Headmaster Potter first hit the papers when he bought a house in Godric's Hollow from the old, pure-blooded, and seemingly unrelated Potters already living there for an unprecedented three thousand galleons. The Potter family, which had been a little less financially comfortable in recent years, were now living in the lap of luxury at their new manor in Dorset. In those early days, Albus, on the knife’s edge of age ten, would stare through the window at the man with wild hair, plodding around in his own garden most afternoons.

 

The Dumbledores had only moved to Godric’s Hollow three months previous, so really, Albus has got nothing better to do than watch the man's shoulders work as he digs out a place in the world for his tomatoes and hyacinth and rosemary.

 

At home, it’s a ceaseless parade of Mum trying to keep Ariana and her explosions of accidental magic out of sight and out of St. Mungo’s permanent residence ward. Then there’s Ariana herself, clinging tightly to her dolls and crying for Dad even though she must know, at this point, that he’s never coming back. They all find their own ways to deal with it, really. Albus reads. Aberforth endlessly rearranges his seashell collection and can’t hear a thing that anyone says while he’s doing it. Ariana cries. Mum throws herself into running a tight ship, furiously sweeping and milking the goats--as if she does twice the work, it’ll be like having two parents again.

 

He watches his mum try to keep it together for their sake and he hates that he can’t fall for it the way Aberforth and Ariana do, hates that he can hear her sobbing some nights because their rooms are closest together, hates that her crying sounds eerily like Ariana's, hates that he can see how tired she is even though she’s only just hit forty.

 

And when Albus just can’t stand it anymore, he sneaks over to Miss Bagshot’s ancient black poplar tree and hides up on its strongest branch. Sometimes he’ll take a book with him, but most of the time he’ll stare at the shifting leaves and pretend that other people don’t exist.

 

Other times he’ll lock himself in his room and read about the Hallows and imagine what it would be like to have such tightly controlled magic, to be invisible, to call the dead to you when you can’t deal with the living.

 

From either location, he has a decent view of Harry Potter’s house--the coming and goings, the daily gardenwork, how late at night the lights flick off. Albus finds him perplexing; he’s dizzied by the contrast between the rumors of his vast wealth and the humble existence he to all appearances lives.

 

He is also, as it happens, undeniably handsome--with his firm jaw, lines around his eyes that confirm his age, and wild dark hair lightly streaked with silver. All that is just to say that he could be a thirty year old man who's grown up too fast and he could just as easily be a fifty year old man who's still a child at heart. And of course, there's that dazzling little scar on his forehead--an obvious symbol of power, but a naturally occurring one, or at least an unintentional one according to its off-center placement and ordinary hue.

 

And then, a year before Albus is due to get his letter, Harry Potter becomes Headmaster of Hogwarts. That whole year is filled to the brim with rumors as to how and why Headmaster Clarence Limebert had named Potter next in line and promptly resigned the following day, but there are a few facts which remain certain: Limebert was an incorruptible man, unswayed by wealth or influence--as the many parents who wanted better scores on their children's N.E.W.T.s had been made aware. In fact, there was little Limebert seemed to want in life following the mysterious death of his sister three years past. It had been speculated that if he only learned the circumstances, perhaps the loss of her would cease to eat him alive. And yet the day after Potter visited his office, Limebert was seen serenely packing up all of his belongings and relocating to parts unknown. Likely somewhere tropical, if the straw Panama hat he was wearing was any indication.

 

The Wizengamot created a Hogwarts Board of Governors just weeks afterward. It was a body--largely consisting of members of the Wizengamot--endowed with veto power over aspiring Headmasters and Headmistresses, a long time in coming but certainly hastened by the overnight and unsuspected change of power.

 

And really, the ensuing anxiety was largely owed to the fact that no one knew whether Potter was a mudblood or pure-blood or what, which means that he's a half-blood because that's almost always what that means. Albus ought to know, after all.

 

*

 

Albus receives his Hogwarts letter right on schedule.

 

It arrives tied to the leg of a handsome tawny owl and his mother swipes away a single tear before it can leave her eye, then she sucks it all back with a deep sniff and starts a shopping list. It couldn’t have come sooner, honestly. There is a flurry of shopping for school books and robes and a pewter cauldron and so on, but everything after that is a drudge of hot summer until he gets to King’s Cross. And then, suddenly, Albus is sitting in an empty compartment, thinking that all anyone’s going to talk about is what a horrid brute his father is or, worse, how he should have finished the job and known how not to get caught. Albus is just about ready to hop off the train and say that perhaps wizarding school isn’t for him after all, but that’s when someone even more miserable than him slides open the door: Elphias Doge. Clearly still recovering from a bout of Dragon Pox, Elphias’ skin is a wilting green color and thoroughly pocked, and they talk about the salve he has to put on the rash until the train lurches forward and it’s too late for Albus to get off.

 

*

 

It’s October and Albus is in love with Hogwarts.

 

He’s so in love with Hogwarts, in fact, that he doesn’t even get mad when Robert Peterson bumps into him outside the Great Hall early on a Wednesday morning. He does get a little exasperated, though, when Delaney Fletcher also gets knocked and spills her jug of Bombastic Pink Lady Apple Juice all over the floor and everyone, Albus included, slips and falls in the fizzy pink mess.

 

Evidently they had an audience because the next thing Albus knows, the Headmaster is striding straight toward the three sticky first-years groaning on the floor. "Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," he says, but not how his mother says it. Not thundering it in warning; just announcing it, like it's an important fact all on its own. And then he offers a hand to Albus, who gladly takes it and grips that hand hard to pull himself up without slipping again in the juice that’s painted the floor five different shades of pink.

 

"You know of me," Albus says, half in question.

 

"Of course," the Headmaster says, his eyes crinkling with his smile. "I make a point of knowing all my neighbors."

 

Albus brushes off his trousers but it’s no good because he can already feel the apple juice drying tackily in his carefully combed hair. He tries not to think about the color it’s probably turned. “It was an accident,” he says, hoping to get them all off scot-free.

 

“I’m sure it was,” Headmaster Potter agrees. Then he calls out to Philomena Ogden, the professor for Care of Magical Creatures and Deputy Headmistress, saying, “Professor Ogden, could you help our first-years get cleaned up and off to class?”

 

She turns from Robert and Delaney, now pink and on their feet. She frowns at the headmaster, answering, “Headmaster, I’m sure--”

 

“Got loads of parents’ letters to answer, sorry. You know how they get!” he says as he disappears around the corner. What a funny man, Albus thinks as he spells his hair clean and makes his way back to the library.

 

*

 

Albus has just finished his last class of the day when he spots the Giant Squid basking in the shallows, over on the far side of the lake near a copse of silver birches. And well, it’s a crisp Friday in November, one of the last days where it’ll actually be nice to spend time outside, so he strolls over to get his first ever close-up look at the squid. As he draws near to the shade of the trees, he realizes that someone else is already there.

 

Headmaster Potter is standing on the shore, tossing out cheese rinds and apple cores and stale bread, pulling them one by one from a paper bag. Great pink tentacles dart out of the water and snatch the rotten treats in midair, then happily drag them under. Albus, certain that he'd read that Giant Squids should keep to a steady diet of kelp and high protein fish, asks, "Should you be feeding him like this?”

 

The Headmaster turns to face him and dodges the real essence of the question deftly: "I know it looks degrading, but he likes scraps. The fouler the better, it seems."

 

For long minutes, they stand side by side in the shade. The only sounds are the chirping of birds and the water shifting as the squid claims his treats.

 

"If I may," Albus begins.

 

"You may," the Headmaster interjects, looking perfectly pleased with himself for the interruption.

 

"How did you come by that scar?"

 

"Got a good knock on the head as a baby. The scar just never went away." Their lakeside chat abruptly ends when Professor Ogden, a staunch defender of the health and happiness of all creatures, comes marching down the hill--clearly in a fury and headed right for them. Two guesses what she's peeved about.

 

"Best be off," the Headmaster says quickly, and Albus truly couldn't say whether he was referring to Albus or himself. Still, Albus takes his cue to head toward the Quidditch pitch, aiming to get lost in the swarm of teammates and fans at the weekly Gryffindor practice. Still, he turns to look over his shoulder and watch Headmaster Potter chuck the rest of his scraps into the water before turning on his heel to head swiftly into the Forbidden Forest.

 

“Should you really be--” Albus calls, concerned in spite of himself.

 

“Yes, yes,” the Headmaster laughs as he approaches the treeline. “I think I’m allowed to be in the Forbidden Forest, Mr. Dumbledore. Have a lovely weekend--don’t forget to enjoy it!”

 

*

 

On Christmas Eve, Mum sends him a letter informing him that their big family dinner went just fine and that he’s dearly missed and she hopes he’ll like his presents tomorrow and Ariana had a bit of an accident and Aberforth’s hands were cut up, but not to worry because it was nothing time and a bowl of Murtlap Essence couldn’t fix and besides, everything’s alright now and Christmas Day is sure to cheer them all up a great deal.

 

Albus lays in bed thinking about how bad it must have been for his mother to bring herself to bear mentioning it on paper, how extensive the damage must be for Aberforth to have dried up their whole supply of Murtlap Essence, how Ariana must have cried and cried to see her favorite bloke in the whole world bleeding, bleeding because of _her--_

 

And then Albus can’t lay there thinking about it anymore, so he gets up to pace around the dormitory, but it’s not big enough for him to pace properly. So he throws on his slippers and his school cloak and bursts out into the devilishly cool night, fully intending to pace around the whole castle until he’s too exhausted to do anything but sleep.

 

He only gets halfway through his first turn around the school when he spots a man standing a few yards away from the base of the Astronomy Tower.

 

It’s Headmaster Potter, watching the winter fireflies hover over the tumbling hills leading up to the castle, glowing steadfast like Christmas candles and occasionally floating high enough to be confused with the stars.

 

There is a sudden, sizeable splash over from the Great Lake. Albus turns to look, and it’s the Giant Squid, which has spotted the Headmaster and is waving a hopeful tentacle around for food. When Albus looks back to Headmaster Potter, he shakes his head and then looks right at Albus. Albus only has half a second to worry about breaking curfew before Headmaster Potter simply smiles at him and turns back to the fireflies.

 

In spite of all logic, Albus can't help but come closer, pulling his cloak tighter around himself as he says, “Sir? What are you doing out here?”

 

Headmaster Potter doesn’t say, _I ought to be asking you that, young man,_ or, _Go back to bed, Mr. Dumbledore._ He just answers, “Couldn’t sleep. And I like the fireflies.”

 

“I like them, too,” Albus says, sounding stupid to himself.

 

But the Headmaster doesn’t think it’s stupid. He hums like Albus has said something extremely thoughtful and answers, “It’s brilliant, how such tiny things can be so bright.”

 

They watch the fireflies together for some time. At the sound of yet more splashing, they turn as one to watch the tentacle finally disappear in the dark water, the Giant Squid presumably headed off to bed without its midnight snack. Which reminds Albus: “You’re not… angry that I’m out after curfew, Headmaster?”

 

“That wouldn’t be in the holiday spirit, would it? And no need to call me Headmaster.”

 

“Mr. Potter,” Albus amends, and Headmaster Potter closes his eyes like he's praying for strength.

 

Just seeing that expression makes Albus feel tired, so he turns to leave, saying, “Happy Christmas, Sir.”

 

“Happy Christmas, Albus.”

 

*

 

If Albus had been befuddled by Harry Potter in Godric’s Hollow, it’s nothing compared to how he feels about him at Hogwarts. The Headmaster feeds the thestrals bloody raw meat and reads muggle novels in the eastern bell tower and takes late afternoon strolls in the Forbidden Forest and spells the owlery clean himself whenever he's up there. That is, when he's not busy looking down at his own owl with quiet disappointment as he strokes over his feathered head. He's nice to the house elves and likes to eat with them in the kitchens and he talks to the centaurs and mermaids and trolls. Albus hears it from gossiping students and muttering professors and, at times, he sees it for himself as the Headmaster criss-crosses the castle grounds this way and that.

 

The Board of Governors reviles him and the parents don’t know what to make of him and the professors seem to like him and the students definitely do. He’s powerful--Albus is convinced of that, even if he’s never seen it for himself.

He's just an incredibly odd man, all around.

 

*

 

One bright, cold morning in March, Albus heads down to Sunday breakfast only to find the entrance to the Great Hall blocked by a swarm of students, all of them crowded around a big piece of paper tacked up on the wall. "Who would even want to?" says Boris Fletcher, honestly confused.

 

"For free! Can you imagine..."  says Gertrude Podesta, repulsed. Then Albus gets close enough to actually read the announcement himself:

 

SUMMER STAY

 

HEADMASTER HARRY POTTER HEREBY ANNOUNCES THAT HOGWARTS WILL NOW ALLOW STUDENTS TO STAY FOR THE SUMMER AT NO COST TO THEM, PROVIDED THAT THEY:

1\. Do so of their own accord, born of their honest desire to be here.

2\. Have an average grade of Acceptable or above, or commit to using the summer to raise their future grades to that level.

3\. In the case of already having an average grade of Acceptable or above, commit to the self-guided study of a single subject for the summer, hopefully one that they normally would not get a chance to explore during the school year.

 

LETTERS OF APPROVAL FROM GUARDIANS APPRECIATED, BUT NOT NECESSARY.

APPLICATIONS DUE BY MAY 15th     

 

And there, underneath it, is a tidy stack of applications set on a stool. Albus feels like he could cry, just then.

 

*

 

Needless to say, Albus spends the whole summer studying up on the historical context of  _The Tales of Beedle the Bard;_ and the summer after that on the creation of chamber music and how to transfigure anything into a record player that can produce it; and the summer after that on Occlumency; and the summer after that on Legilimency; and the summer after that on rudimentary Alchemy; and that final summer researching the innermost workings of Pensieves.

 

That first summer is a little slice of heaven: all of that solitude and the chance to explore the entire school grounds with no curfew to keep him in check. And the whole of the library is his, excepting the six other students who opt into the summer study program. It is, essentially, like living the fantasy of what he thought school might be like before he got his letter.

 

*

 

Second year comes round and confirms a lot of things that Albus had suspected, but couldn't know for sure. Albus is good at Transfigurations, he knows he is. He's good at most subjects, really, but Transfigurations is the one where he can get most spells right by the third try. His confidence is only solidified when even the second-year spells don’t trip him up, and Professor Jorkins says he has a lot of potential.

 

He knows it’s not just favoritism when  _Transfiguration Today_ picks up his essay on trans-species transfiguration for their “Transfigurers of the Future” issue, and Miss Bagshot sends him a very nice letter about it. Albus replies promptly, asking if she’s a long-time subscriber of the magazine and if she herself writes. Miss Bagshot politely bemoans the fact that she’s already been writing a book on recent wizarding history for about twenty years now. _Mark my words, it’ll be another forty before it’s even published_ , she writes. _History just keeps on happening._

 

It’s at this point that Albus realizes that she is in fact, a professor, albeit not one of Hogwarts’. She’s a much sought-after governess in order to make ends meet while she writes her numerous books, though she only has four students at the moment and none of them with a head for history like Albus has, or so she writes. He asks who her pupils are, if he might know any of them. Kimberly Diggle, the McKinnon sisters, and little Merope Gaunt, Miss Bagshot replies. Hopelessly short attention spans, the lot of them, but good-hearted too.

 

Early on Halloween evening, Albus writes his latest reply, thanking her for the cauldron cakes she’d sent, asking her how her Plangentines are coming along, and wishing her a happy All Hallows’ Eve. He shuffles up the owlry steps to send it as twilight burnishes the stone tower red and orange and gold.

 

When he enters the aviary itself, he is immensely unsurprised to see that Headmaster Potter is already there, tossing a sad-looking pumpkin out of the window. Albus’ perplexity must show clearly on his face, because when the Headmaster turns around and sees him there, he explains himself by saying, “Professor Lima has been experimenting with pumpkin accelerants and fertilizers, but he needed to test how it affected their firmness. And the best way to test that is with gravity. He figured that if anybody else did it this way, they’d get in trouble.”

 

“Magic,” Albus says, feeling dumbfounded that he goes to a school for it all over again and amazed at the way that it can explain even the most inexplicable behavior.

 

“Nope. Science.” The Headmaster chucks another green, bumpy pumpkin out the owlry window, narrowly missing Professor Jorkins, who can and will turn those who cross him into a salamander quicker than most wizards can draw their wand.

 

"You're mad," Albus breathes.

 

Headmaster Potter doesn't even rebuke him. He just smiles and says, "There are worse things to be." Then he makes a tally on his score sheet and drags his sack of pumpkins over to another window.

 

Figuring that that’s as conclusive as the end of a conversation can get, Albus ties his letter to the leg of Elwin, his family’s owl, and heads back down the stairs. He’s perplexed, yes, but mostly… Albus just wants to get to the point in his life where as he’s wise and put-together as Headmaster Potter is, even when he’s doing something objectively silly. It seems so liberating, to a boy as straight-laced as him.

 

*

 

Third year comes round, and Albus can barely remember his father’s face. But that doesn’t mean that he’s forgotten the man. He dreams of Azkaban, the crashing of waves, the bone-chilling mist that must hang over everything, the despair that must fill every hour.

 

And within those dreams, there’s a kernel of reality: he’d loved his father. And it hadn’t been enough.

 

Had his father been wise? No. Had he been justified? Perhaps, but it’s not like anything he did made Ariana happier or safer. The only thing he’d truly done to keep her safe was to keep mum about her condition in court. And what does it mean, when silence is the only protection you can offer someone? What does it mean, when _The Daily Prophet_ uses your name more than your own family does?

 

Late at night, in privacy if his own mind, Albus can acknowledge the truth: their father’s been dead for years now.

 

*

 

As far as the rest of the world is concerned, however, Percival Dumbledore dies that November--and good riddance, say the papers. Albus gets a week of leave to go home for the burial and as he's leaving the school, Headmaster Potter’s there, waiting for him in the Entrance Hall. They say nothing. The Headmaster simply walks him to the edge of the school wards and Apparates the both of them to Godric’s Hollow. Potter follows him up to the house and knocks on the front door, a hand on Albus’ shoulder. Mum answers it a minute later and evidently she doesn't have the energy to spare to throw out an intruder because she simply hustles them into a pair of armchairs with a tea set already laid out on the table, leftover from her own teatime ritual. Then she strides down the hallway, to the basement door, unwilling to leave Ariana alone for long in what's sure to be an emotionally turbulent time.

 

The whole house is silent after that, so Aberforth must be reorganizing his seashell collection or tending to the goats out back. The two of them sit in the drawing room and listen to the grandfather clock tick. Then the Headmaster makes them both a cup of tea, charming it hot again and adding seven sugar cubes just the way Albus likes it. Albus accepts the cup and is speaking before he even realizes it: “I can't help but wonder, you know, if he’d be proud of me.”

 

Headmaster Potter turns to him and says, “Brightest in your year, one of the cleverest students Hogwarts has ever seen--he'd be a fool not to be proud.”

 

“He was a fool,” Albus answers, looking down at his own dark reflection in his cup. “But I suppose you're right. He'd be proud of those things.”

 

“You silly sod,” Headmaster Potter says, and Albus is absolutely startled to hear him talk that way. “You know you're good for more than that, right? You've got an enormous heart and you're quite popular among your schoolmates, especially considering that so many were set against you on account of your father. You're persuasive and curious about the world and you’re going to do amazing things in life, Albus. I just know you are.”

 

“Merlin,” Albus says, helpless to say anything smarter. “Why are you so nice to me?”

 

Headmaster Potter gives him a smile that's halfway between implying that he's holding back a secret and implying that they're already sharing one. He nibbles on a bit of biscotti and answers, “Us Somerset folk have to stick up for each other. And we’ve got to live up to the Hollow’s namesake, haven’t we?”

 

*

 

At the beginning of fourth year, Albus watches as Aberforth hops up on the stool and the Sorting Hat puts him squarely in Hufflepuff. It’s pretty easy for them to dutifully ignore each other after that.

 

It’s around that same time when a strange little girl begins periodically visiting the castle, fiercely cross-eyed with lank black hair. She can’t be more than seven, but she always has such a serious expression on her face. The Headmaster takes tea and long strolls with her, and more than once Albus bumps into them on their circuit around the lake, weaving around the occasional patches of asphodel. Their conversation always pauses when other people draw near and Albus can never quite puzzle out whether it’s out of politeness or discretion.

 

Once, though, he hears Headmaster Potter recommence their conversation just before they fade out of earshot, “Have you liked staying at Shell Cottage, Merope? I know Tessie Prewett can be a difficult woman.”

 

“She’s not difficult,” replies that high, young voice that Albus can barely make out. “She just knows what she is owed. And even when she’s in a mood, she’s not nearly as bad as Muriel.” The last sound that Albus hears before they round the corner and he turns his attention completely back to his Arithmancy textbook is the Headmaster’s chuckle, low and wry.

 

 _Merope._ For the life of him, Albus can’t place the name, though he knows that he’s heard it somewhere before.

 

*

 

It’s later that semester when Albus finally takes the time to ask around about her. It doesn’t take long--she hasn’t got a very common name, after all--before somebody recognizes it. Doris Diggory casts a cautious glance around the library before she says, “I hear she’s a Gaunt. A vile bunch, and they treated her real nasty, too. Then Potter swoops in and files a complaint at the Ministry, on account of the fact that Merope’s magic was being squashed by her traumatic living situation and all. St. Mungo’s ran all kinds of tests and said she couldn’t live with her Da anymore, or she might not be a witch at all in the long run. So Potter takes her in and asks the Prewetts for help raising a polite little lady--and you know Edna Prewett, she perked right up the moment he implied she knew a thing about it--and now Merope’s got a governess in Godric’s Hollow and a Headmaster for a guardian and the whole Prewett clan to bring her up right, and it’s sweet really, when you think about how it’s all ended up.”

 

Though Doris had made a genuine effort to be quiet, Hammond Misslethorpe from the next table leans over to comment, “The real question is how a pure-blood girl--a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, no less--willingly became the ward of a no-name wizard. The Gaunts are fanatical about their pedigree, and you know they had to have stamped that into her as early on as possible.”

 

Doris sniffs and says that Hammond ought to be getting back to his homework anyhow, but Albus thinks he rather has a point.

 

He finally finds an opportunity to ask the Headmaster himself about it when the school nearly empties for the winter hols. The Headmaster is decorating the largest Christmas tree in the Great Hall when Albus finds him, so he strides up to him and says, “Headmaster, if you have a moment--”

 

“Hold this for me, would you?” A box of glass ornaments and Christmas crackers is unceremoniously dumped into Albus’ arms. He watches as Headmaster Potter tries to get the star set on top of the tree perfectly straight. Every time the Headmaster levitates the star onto the topmost spot, it wavers in one direction or another and the ornaments sway, the tree listing to one side under the weight of shimmering tinsel and heatless candles.

 

“You might consider using _Duro_ to make the trunk and branches sturdier,” Albus suggests.

 

“Can’t,” Headmaster Potter replies, “It’s a Unequivocal Conifer, resistant to common spells. And if I use the Feather-Light Charm on the star, then it’ll blow off with the slightest draft.”

 

Albus shifts the box in his arms and asks, “Why don't you just persuade Professor Lima to let you use his new vegetal Strengthening Solution?”

 

"I perform _magic,_ not miracles." So they spend the next thirty minutes coming up with every unconventional trick they can think of to get the star perched properly. At long last, Albus railroads Headmaster Potter into levitating Albus up there himself so that he can plunk the star on top, and when it begins to slump in one direction again, Albus plops a couple ornaments on the opposite side so that it finds equilibrium.

 

As Albus’ feet find the floor again, he and the Headmaster turn to each other with victorious grins on their faces. They give each other a firm, celebratory handshake, then go their separate ways--the Headmaster presumably to hand out those Christmas crackers and Albus to the kitchens to satisfy his sudden craving for hot chocolate with a mountain of whipped cream on it. It’s only after his third mug that he realizes he never even got ask Headmaster Potter about that mysterious little girl.

 

*

 

In the long, hot summer between fourth and fifth year, Albus is up to his elbows in tomes on Legilimency when an owl swoops in through the open library window, here to deliver Albus a badge with a big _P_ emblazoned on it. Attached is a lengthy letter informing him that he has been named a Prefect, followed by ten pages documenting his responsibilities and the expectations for his conduct. Albus isn’t _surprised_ exactly, but still. He’d have been a ponce to assume that he would be tapped for it.

 

It’s a reminder, if anything. He’s on his way, working all the time to carve out something splendid for the person he’s becoming.

 

So he writes his mum a letter to let her know and he shines the badge, then tucks it safely away between his Gryffindor ties and shoe polish--determined not to dwell on how important it makes him feel.

 

*

 

Fifth year is a blur of preparing for his O.W.L.s, trying not to overthink his upcoming Careers Advice session with Professor Jorkins, and breaking up brawls between Aberforth and students of every year and house who made the grave mistake of picking on a Hufflepuff in Aberforth’s year. Albus would be proud, if he weren’t so busy writing him up.

 

When he’s not occupied with all of that, or religiously attending Study Hall, or making origami animals come to life simply to see how they’ll move, Albus spends a lot of time sitting in the Gryffindor Common Room fiddling with Elphias’ muggle cigarette lighter, trying to think of what it is that's so mesmerizing about light.

 

He’ll sit there and think about lots of things, just letting the thoughts come and go, only stopping to write down the really good ones every once and awhile. Occlumency’s been good for that sort of thing--helping him clear his mind, letting the thoughts come as they may. The one that repeatedly trips him up, though, is the thought of the scar on the back of Headmaster Potter’s hand: _I must not tell lies_. It was carved there through painstaking repetition, owing to the slight wobbling where the letters don’t quite line up.

 

Albus did a fair bit of research and the most likely explanation is a Blood Quill--nothing better accounted for the fact that it was in Harry's own handwriting on his  _dominant hand_ , although it must be an unusual variant of a Blood Quill for it to have left such pale, long-lasting scars. And Albus can begin to imagine the kind of schooling Harry must have had, for such meticulous self-torture to be used as corporal punishment--the kind of schooling, in retrospect, that would give him the drive to make everyone else's experience so much better. Albus feels cold to think of all the adults that must have failed Harry for such a thing to come to pass and he hates them impotently, instinctively, for their carelessness.

 

*

 

For the first time in five years, he spends summer at home. After two days of exploding china cabinets and Aberforth eyeing him like he’s forfeited his right to come home, Albus swiftly comes to the conclusion that this was a disastrous mistake on his part, and he seeks sanctuary across the street. His shirt is already starting to stick to his back by the time he wanders over to Harry Potter’s yard, and Albus surprised to find him shoveling soil into a large earthen flowerpot, placed at the edge of his hitherto unpotted garden. “Living up to your namesake, I see,” Albus notes, leaning against the fencepost.

 

Headmaster Potter doesn’t even turn around. He just chuckles, looking particularly dashing and somehow immune to the summer heat. He toes the valerian seedlings a little further away from where he’s shovelling and says, “Yeah, I suppose I am.”

 

His yard is filled with the song of jaybirds and kingfishers, the gentle breeze, and the rhythmic shovelling of dirt. Albus, who hasn’t been home in five years except for every odd Christmas, is happy to just revel in the natural quiet of Potter’s home in contrast to the general human noisiness of his own.

 

“So what are you studying to keep yourself busy this summer?”

 

Albus starts, wondering how Headmaster Potter had known he was tackling a new subject on his own time. “Come on,” Potter laughs. “Smart bloke like you, teaching yourself a new topic every summer? Like you’d stop now. So what did you pick?”

 

“Alchemy,” Albus says sheepishly. It sounds awfully obvious when it’s all laid out like that.

 

The Headmaster leans his shovel against the fence and stretches, noting, “Tough subject to tackle on your own.”

 

“I’m sticking purely to the theoretical side, Sir.”

 

“Well, how’d you feel about a non-theoretical cheese toastie and a pitcher of lemonade? I dunno about you, but I’m baking out here.” So they head into Potter’s house and Albus can’t help but look all around, noting the new-looking wallpaper and the dirty mugs flocked around the kitchen sink. It’s a house clearly meant for more than one middle-aged bachelor, but Potter has filled the space out well with colorful maps of wizarding Britain along the walls and secondhand but comfy-looking furniture.

 

Potter pops a couple of cheese toasties in the oven and pours them each a tall glass of lemonade. Before either of them can take a sip, the truth is falling out Albus’ mouth, the way it always seems to around this man: “I came over here because my family makes me barmy. Being at home turns me into... my least favorite version of myself.” He drags his fingers through the condensation already beading up on the glass. “Do you think it’s always going to count against me, having a family like mine?”

 

Headmaster Potter leans back in his chair and says, “Trust me, someone’s already in the drafting stages of your tell-all memoir. But you can’t really control any of that. All you can do is try to steer yourself toward the person you want to be and hope you don’t miss your mark by too far.”

 

Albus stares down at the woodgrain of the kitchen table and says, “I suppose part of the trouble is that I feel like I don’t do right by them, either.”

 

Headmaster Potter waits until Albus meets his eyes again and says, "You've got to try to give people the things you would've wanted for yourself. And if they reject that, that's okay because everybody's different and they need different things. But you have to _try_."

 

Albus nods. It’s simple advice, to say the least, but perhaps that’s what makes it good advice.

 

“I’m here for you, Albus. If there’s anything you ever need to talk about, I hope you’ll remember that.” Then he gets up to fetch the cheese toasties from the oven. It’s comforting to hear, but Albus just knows that he’ll have too much pride to take him up on it. Still, it’s a nice thought.

 

*

 

The Headmaster’s office is bright and circular, ringed with windows and intermittent bookshelves sprinkled with odds and ends; the Sorting Hat perched here and a happy little pot of wormwood sitting there. The rare stretches of bare wall are bricked up with the portraits of previous Headmasters and Headmistresses, all snoozing in their gilded frames.

 

Albus came up here to give a report on Peeves’ recent attempt at a coup, but as soon as that’s done, Headmaster Potter leans forward on the enormous claw-footed desk, barely avoiding the piles of parchment, and asks, “Albus, are you alright?”

 

Albus really isn’t. He can’t stop thinking about how, at lunch yesterday, he’d been telling Felicia Clearwater how he had spent the summer before last studying Legilimency and admitting that he felt that he still had a ways to go before becoming an accomplished Legilimens. That’s when Marcy Podmore had broken in from across the table and snidely said, “It’s a bit dangerous for you to study Legilimency, isn’t it? I mean, it’s practically a Dark Art.” And all of the other Gryffindors sitting nearby had looked uncomfortable and hadn’t said anything at all, which really wasn’t very Gryffindorly of them.

 

Then, when he’d confessed all this to Elphias and asked for his opinion, Ephias had said, “Well, of course it’s not a Dark Art! It’s just, you know, a pointedly Not Light one. Perfectly legal and above board! Nothing they should get to rake you over the coals for!” And if anything, Albus had felt about a thousand times worse, as if the hateful things brewing inside him were suddenly apparent to everyone around him.

 

Albus tells Headmaster Potter all of that, and more: how he’d read plenty on how Legilimency and Occlumency could be used to acquire unfair advantages in any given situation, and he’d come up with plenty of ideas for more. “So I suppose I’m wondering,” Albus concludes, rolling his shoulders a little to release some of his nervous energy, “if you’ll tell me that, too. That I shouldn’t be mucking about with magics that twist the mind or that, because it’s legal, it doesn’t matter whether or not it’s right for me to do it.”

 

Headmaster Potter comes around his desk to rest a firm hand on Albus' shoulder and says, "You're a good person. I know you are. So no, I'm not worried about what ill-informed seventh-years have to say about your extracurriculars and no, if I had my opinions about it, I wouldn't heap them all onto you." Albus feels pinpricks in his eyes, the very beginning of tears that won't come in front of anybody else.

 

Albus wants to say that he _should_ worry, that Albus himself is frightened of what he might be capable of, given the right push. But he can’t choke the words out. All he can say is, “There is darkness within me.”

 

And for once, he can see the words on Headmaster Potter’s lips before he says them: that there is darkness within all of us, that it’s perfectly healthy to acknowledge that about himself, that he is not alone. But then he swallows them and says instead, “Albus, I’m going to tell you something. Can I trust you?” Given what Albus had said just moments previous, it seems counterproductive to agree, but Albus is curious enough to nod. “I’m a Parselmouth.” Albus blinks. And stares. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask Harry to prove it when he thinks better of it, but Harry only smiles wryly like he’d asked anyway and conjures a garter snake. And then he talks to it. Hissing syllables and sibilant consonants fill the room with a fluency that can’t be faked or charmed into one’s tongue and it raises the hair on the back of Albus’ neck to hear it. Apparently finishing the brief conversation, the snake bobs its head in some facsimile of agreement and Harry banishes it. Then he turns to Albus, saying, “Now, are you going to turn me out?”

 

“Of course not. It’s your office,” Albus answers mindlessly, but Harry chuckles like he’s told a marvelous joke. And then it clicks in Albus’ head: the only confirmed living Parselmouths are in the Gaunt family, who claim to anyone who will listen that they’re descended from the legendary Peverell line. Perhaps if they and Harry were somehow related--yes, that would explain why Merope trusted Harry enough to leave her own blood. Because he _was_ her own blood. In retrospect, _Harry Potter_ is an incredibly, _suspiciously_ common name.

 

Albus can hardly get the words out of his mouth: “Headmaster, are you--”

 

“I trust you, Albus,” Harry says, looking down at him with serious, shining eyes. “I know you have questions. I know I might seem like a git for telling you something like this and then telling you not to ask questions. But trust me when I say that asking me where I come from, _who_ I come from--can’t lead anywhere good. So I’m trusting you with that. Not to ask.”

 

There are a hundred thousand things Albus simply burns to ask him about the Peverells and the Gaunts and the Hallows and, Merlin, _everything_ but he swallows them back because it's looking more and more like that's what love is all about.

 

*

 

Over the years, Albus has assembled a few facts about the Headmaster of which he can be certain: his speeches for the Welcoming Feast are always short, no one has ever seen him drink anything harder than butterbeer or hot cider, and there has never been a rumor of romance with any substance to it that has Harry Potter’s name attached.

 

It’s not like that makes Albus’ infatuation any less hopeless, but still. It’s something.

 

*

 

Albus’ summer study spills over into his final fall semester because he just can’t leave the subject of Pensieves alone. Things only draw out more when he asks Headmaster Potter to let him study the unspeakably old Pensieve stationed in his office, thinking it will answer most of his questions but instead walking away each day with thirty more.

 

Of course, that’s just in relation to the physical structure of the Pensieve and the Saxon runes carved into it, not even touching on its immeasurable contents. It’s all very well and good that the founders discovered it jutting halfway out of the ground and that this was one of the deciding factors for choosing the build a school in the remote wilderness, but Albus is much more interested in what has happened since--the volunteering of memories from countless headmasters throughout the years, culminating in a veritable library of human experience.

 

In late September, Albus is headed to dinner when he runs into the Headmaster Potter in front of the portrait of Circe, and they find themselves walking to the Great Hall together. When Albus asks him about the aforementioned library of human experience, Headmaster Potter confesses to sampling much of its contents. “It must offer you so many of the school’s secrets,” Albus says, hardly able to imagine what they might contain.

 

“Not really, no.”

 

“What does it offer you, then?”

 

“Perspective.” The hallway is quiet for a minute, echoing only with the sound of their steps, quick with peckishness. “What about you, then? What’ve you taken away from your studies?”

 

Albus takes a moment to really think about it. And then he says, “Most Pensieves are entombed with their owners. I don’t think I’d ever do that, if I owned one.”

 

“What if someone comes along, looking to dig up all of your embarrassing secrets?”

 

“It’d keep me honest, knowing that it’ll all come out in the end.” Headmaster Potter looks so _happy_ , hearing that, and in spite of himself Albus sits a little taller in his seat all through dinner and two helpings of dessert.

 

*

 

By March, Albus can enjoy the fruits of an entire winter spent working on a respectable beard and mustache. He's had to use a little fine-tuned spellwork to persuade it to be auburn enough to match his hair shade for shade, instead of the rusty blonde it wants to be, but the overall effect seems very maturing. At least, in the mirror it is.

 

It couldn’t hurt, anyway, helping him look the part for Head Boy.

 

Seventh year is full of unbelievable things like that: he’s top of his year, a near perfect grade in every subject. He’s just months away from becoming a wizard, a _real_ one. He’s at eye level with Headmaster Potter, now, which brings with it... certain temptations. Or, to throw out subtlety altogether, Albus has to routinely promise himself that he won’t use Legilimency on the Headmaster. It's not that he's not tempted, mind, but he has this weird feeling that Potter would know if he even tried.

 

He’s also just gotten his Apparition license, and all the hoops that the Ministry had made them jump through to earn them have put Albus in a contemplative mood. He stares into the fire in the Gryffindor Common Room, thinking: Apparition is so impersonal, when you really consider it. As far as spellwork goes, it offers no leniency to distraction or emotion. What if magical transportation could instead be used with relevance to one’s personal needs, one’s dearest wishes? What if a spell or device or ritual could take you to where you most wanted to be? Or better yet, to whom you most wanted to be with?

 

His train of thought is derailed when a pair of second-years go tumbling to the Common Room floor, a botched _Flipendo_ sending them both down giggling. He watches them take a good five minutes to straighten themselves out and he starts, realizing that he’s been sitting on his duff next to the fire, calling them sprogs and mites in his head this whole time. He’s getting _old._

 

How odd.

 

*

 

Albus graduates, disbelieving it even as it happens, and as he crosses the Great Lake for the last time, he watches the boat lamps jostle on the water and thinks of fireflies, of earth-bound stars.

 

His mother dies a week later.

 

His home is a mess, in every sense of the word. Between Aberforth and Albus, it takes three days in all to remove the magical scorch marks from the floorboards, to say nothing of the indescribable smell of a woman fried alive by accidental magic. Ariana is inconsolable, but honestly, so are the rest of them. In the days leading up to the funeral, they all retreat to their own corners of the house in an attempt to preempt explosions of any kind. Albus falls into a fugue of crafting the device that’s been on his mind for years now.

 

He completes his first prototype for the Deluminator and selects the epitaph for his mother’s gravestone on the same night: “Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”

 

*

 

Albus doesn’t remember much of the funeral. It’s sad as hell, but somehow, his mum was just about as popular as his dad when all was said and done. So it’s a small, quiet crowd that attends the graveside service and lines up to offer their condolences afterward. Right at the start of the queue, there’s Elphias. He hugs Albus hard and tells him that he’ll write, that the Grand Tour they’d planned to take together this summer just won't be the same without him. Somewhere in the middle, there’s Headmaster Potter, wan and offering an oddly intense apology. And at the end of the queue, Miss Bagshot presses a parcel of pumpkin pasties into his hands and introduces her great nephew: tall, handsome, impossibly blonde, and, by Merlin, the symbol of the Hallows pinned to his shirt collar. Albus is instantly smitten--or at least, he thinks he is, through the haze of sleep deprivation and grief.

 

Still, he must manage to make a good impression somehow because Gellert invites him out to lunch the very next day and Albus takes him up on it, thinking that any time spent away from home will do him good. If it’s simply a form of escape, then it’s a marvelously effective one. Because the two of them simply can’t stay away from each other, walking around the neighborhood, bandying back and forth theories about Ignotus Peverell and egging each other to admit what they’d _really_ do once the muggles learned their place. It’s talk of revolution, essentially, but talk’s not all it is.

 

Two months pass. Elphias does, in fact, write. Sadly, the fun-filled letters from Turkey and Greece and Alexandria don’t exactly help. The kinds of things Albus is thinking and feeling are of the sort that Elphias could tease out of him in person, but certainly not through the post. A lot of it, honestly, Albus wouldn’t even be willing to write down.

 

Gellert has no such compunctions, not a single shy bone in his body. Just before Gellert packs up his things and heads off to Vienna, he asks Albus to come with him. Albus would be mad to turn him down, so that's exactly what he does.

 

*

 

It is an understatement, to say that tensions run high in the Dumbledore house in the following weeks. Deciding who does the cooking, who did the washing up last night, and who’ll do the shopping tomorrow is a minefield of _You never appreciated all she did for us, Aberforth,_ and _At least I was here!_ And every moment of it is an acknowledgment that she's gone, and she was a quiet woman, but the house is still so quiet without her because Ariana has only said a handful of words since the funeral and most of them were _stop it_ and _my fault_.

 

Then Gellert visits, back from Vienna out of the blue. It starts off poorly, with Gellert striding up to the house with a winsome smile and Albus meeting him halfway, deliriously happy to see him again so soon and dying for an excuse to leave the house, if only for an hour. But Aberforth follows him out to the front yard, too, saying, “You tossers still planning the new wizarding order? How do you think that’ll go, when I’m at Hogwarts in two weeks’ time and Ariana has to tag along while you two _subjugate the muggle scum?_ ”

 

Storm clouds gather on Gellert’s brow, and he sneers, “What a stupid little boy you are, if you think you can keep your brother back from his fate--a fate every bit as brilliant as he is.”

 

“Holding him back now, are we?” Aberforth answers, coming down the front steps to stand right in front of them, fists curled tightly at his sides. “His family, the ones who’ve known him all our lives, holding him back?”

 

“Why can’t you understand? If we have our way, your poor sister wouldn’t have to hide away at all. She’d be free to live wherever and however she wanted. As would you. As would Albus. That all _starts_ with Albus living how he wants to--so that we all can.” Gellert is in full grandstanding mode now, which is something that Albus usually loves to watch because that’s him at his most eloquent, his most proud. But he can tell it’s only making things worse because when Aberforth feels anger and uncertainty simultaneously, at any level, he starts reaching for his wand instead of his words.

 

And, on cue, Aberforth palms his wand, yelling, “Don’t patronize me, you greasy, gib-faced _nancy--_ ”

 

Everyone draws their wands, and Albus feels rushed and incandescent with rage at the both of them and at himself for having no words with which to stop them. Gellert's wandtip barely moves to cast the first spell when there's a great rustling in the bushes. They all turn as the Headmaster of Hogwarts bursts through the hedges. He takes one good look at the three of them, red-faced from yelling and with their wands pointed at each other’s throats, and shakes his head. Then he crouches down to pick Ariana up off the porch--completely disregarding the fact that she’s a fourteen year old girl with two working feet. Her face is scrunched like she's been crying for ages, and Albus realizes that he hadn’t even noticed she was there. Harry turns to head back through the bushes with Ariana hitched in his arms and says, "Underage duelling's illegal, especially between three combatants. If you're all going to kill each other, I suggest you don't do it in public or where your sister will have to watch." Then he vanishes into the green. The murderous mood now ruined, Albus puts his wand down, watching Aberforth stare after their sister's departure.

 

Gellert lowers his wand, too, put off by the interruption, and he scoffs, "That filthy meddling half-blood--"

 

Albus hexes him silent while he's defenseless, then hits him with a buoying spell that makes Gellert bounce far off into the sunny sky, his scarlet and voicelessly howling face growing smaller over the roofs and treetops until he can't be seen at all.

 

Aberforth watches the spectacle the way most people observe the lowering of the flag or the raising of a memorial. Then he shoves his wand back into his pocket and says, "You do me proud at the strangest moments, you really do."

 

They go inside and scrape together some biscuits and toys to woo Ariana back from Harry Potter's house because if Albus' own experience is any indication, she's not going to want to leave.

  
  
When they get there, arms laden with treats, they can hear Ariana's voice through the open window: "Oh sure, I like kingfishers but they’re so loud! And they like my breadcrumbs, so they always gobble them up before I can lure in some pretty starlings to look at--"

 

Albus knocks. Everything quiets. A moment later, Headmaster Potter opens the door. He looks down at their offerings and recalcitrant faces, and says, "She's going to want an apology. A real one."

  
  
Then he walks back into the house, leaving the front door wide open behind him. Albus and Aberforth look at each other, nod in agreement, and head in to gather up the rest of their family.

 

*

 

Aberforth launches into his sixth year at Hogwarts and Albus sets about picking up where his mother left off, at least as far as Ariana’s homeschooling is concerned. He’s lucky that she likes to read almost as much as he does because it makes her an amenable pupil. There are times, of course, when she gets eerie and quiet, her magic ready to fly off the handle. Other days, she’ll be loud and easily frustrated, a single papercut away from warping all the wood in the house and curdling their entire pantry.

 

It always takes a moment to remember that it’s not actually her that’s doing all that. Rather, it’s a part of her--a wild, rejected, unhealing part of her that aches to be free the way the whole of Ariana does.

 

When reminding himself of that fact isn’t enough, Albus imagines what it would be like to be accosted at age six, to be unable to perform a giggling jinx at will, to watch his father be banished to Azkaban for his sake, to witness his mother die at the hand of his own rogue magic, to see everyone struggle not to say that it’s all his fault. And then he takes a deep breath and makes tea for the both of them, his wand pointing this way and that to tidy whatever mess has been made.

 

That is to say, Albus grows extremely proficient at cleaning charms and mending spells.

 

Most of the time, though, the house is quiet, the two of them reading together in the drawing room. Or if Ariana is on the verge of a rage, they’ll put a record on the victrola and do something she likes: chess or cards or eye-spy or they’ll pick a random game out of a hat containing countless parlor games written on scrap paper. Quite unlike his mother, however, Albus gives her as much free time as she wants. Ariana seems to relish the hours spent alone, and being able to walk around the yard whenever she likes.

 

Perhaps it's careless of him to let Ariana sprawl in the grass and watch the clouds pass overhead, but it doesn't _feel_ careless. It feels... important. If Ariana's any calmer as fall fades to winter, and if the magical mishaps grow any less frequent, Albus probably owes it to those long afternoons where she yearns to be outside and realizes that she can be, that Albus has no intention of keeping her in the basement--for better or worse.

 

It does him good, to see that he can, in fact, live up to his familial duties if he really puts his back into it. And yet, Albus still wants something grand for himself. There’s no running from that.

 

So he applies to become a long-distance student of the Wizarding Institute for Advanced Transfigurations and Charms. It takes time and Albus can’t be entirely certain that some finagling on the part of Headmaster Potter, Bathilda Bagshot, and Professor Jorkins wasn’t involved, but he is, at length, accepted.

 

He pursues a degree in--what else?--Transfiguration, but attends plenty of guest lectures on spellcraft and the invention of magical devices on the rare Friday evening when Miss Bagshot has the time to stay with Ariana for a few hours. In fact, it’s at one such lecture that he meets Nicholas Flamel--a garrulous speaker, but more than happy to entertain a young student’s questions even when the lecture is long over. He turns out to be a decent bloke all around, a good sport and a formidable Bridge player. Nicholas is the one who pushes his plans for the Deluminator to the next level, insisting that it would be perfectly capable of transporting speech and nonverbal guidance to the wielder, if Albus is persistent with it.

 

And Albus _is_ persistent with it, but when he can’t stand to look at the innards of his prototypes any longer, he invents a bunch of funny little instruments, constructed of pure whimsy: spindly ones that are sensitive to guilt and windmill-y ones that just make a nice white noise for no reason at all, most of them decorated with his penchant for silver.

 

He’s tinkering with spare parts for the next such gadget when Miss Bagshot stops by. He invites her in and offers her tea, but she turns him down, standing in his doorway and announcing, “I’ve made up my mind. I’m teaching that little girl and I won’t take no for an answer.”

 

Albus feels heartened to hear it, but is also instantly drained, answering, “Miss Bagshot, I’d be honored if you would. But you have to know that after the funeral and the cost of tuition for two of us, we haven’t the money to spare for a governess of your calibre.”

 

“Never you mind,” Miss Bagshot says, sounding as firm as Albus has ever heard her. “She needs a woman in her life. Someone who understands the world and how it came to be the place we live in today, and--with all due respect, Albus--two teenage boys can’t give her that. Money isn’t an issue. Pay me in articles, if you like.”

 

And that, in essence, is how Albus becomes a monthly contributor to _Transfigurations Today_.

 

*

 

By April, Miss Bagshot’s proven herself capable of handling the worst of Ariana’s episodes. She finds, much as Albus did, that a simple _Protego_ covers most of it, as long as she's quick on the draw. And by late June, Aberforth is back from school, and Ariana seems to do best between the three of them: more attention, more choice in who she takes her problems to, more room to grow. With all of that well in hand, Albus is free to spend every other weekend at the Wizarding Institute for Advanced Transfigurations and Charms on their actual campus in Ipswich. He books a room at the local tavern every odd Saturday night and Apparates to and from Godric’s Hollow, lugging his heavily earmarked textbooks with him.

 

He meets his professors in person for the first time, attending their office hours to discuss upcoming assignments and tricky theories and the last article he’d published and, all around, why Transfigurations is a subject beyond compare. You’d think it would suit him better than Hogwarts, hobnobbing with scholars just as serious as he is and devoted to the same field of study as him, but Hogwarts remains in a league of its own--the very originality of the place, its wide-open heart. He can’t help but wonder if he’ll end up there again someday, writing the step by step process for turning a mouse into a snuffbox on the chalkboard for wee firsties. It seems impossible, but also kind of unavoidable.

 

He’ll leave his professors’ offices every other Sunday evening, mind filled to the brim with ideas about what he would put on a syllabus if it were up to him. It’s always tough, just then, to Apparate right back home and pretend that there aren’t places he’d rather be, things he’d rather be doing.

 

It’s hard, there’s no denying that, but it’s not the life sentence Albus first felt it to be, and the resentment at having his ambition curbed bubbles up less as time goes by. If nothing else, he finally learns how to cook. As a matter of fact, so does Ariana.

 

Aberforth explodes when he finds out that Albus had let her try her hand in the kitchen and, to be fair, the risks were substantial--what with Ariana’s proximity to fire and sharp appliances and boiling water. But honestly, she was just so happy to try something new and her pasta with tomatoes and spinach really did turn out alright, if a bit squishy and overcooked. Aberforth stops grumbling about it when Ariana sends him a letter promising to make him the same dish when he comes home for Christmas and telling him that she misses him very much.

 

*

 

Aberforth’s last three years at Hogwarts pass briskly, a harefooted affair for all of them. At the end of graduation day, he marches through the front door and Ariana comes racing down the stairs. Albus watches as Aberforth scoops her up like she doesn’t weigh a thing and swings her round and round, Ariana shrieking all the while like she’s a happy six-year-old rather than a well-mannered young woman of sixteen.

 

Three weeks later, Albus is on the very cusp of his own graduation and he’s only just begun to worry about what he’ll do with himself afterwards when, somehow, he’s offered the position of associate editor at _Transfigurations Today._

 

*

 

Working for the magazine is a change of pace for Albus, with its focus on producing rather than consuming scholarship. Best of all, most of his colleagues work from home, too. Twice a week, he visits the cramped but homey main office above a flower shop, set deep in a London back-alley. Of course, the owner of the magazine had chosen that very office space because he loves flowers, so great daffodils and miniature morning glories sprout from every conceivable surface; each time the spell is refreshed they twist in new directions and knock over a stack of back issues.

 

Albus likes to sit at his desk and focus on making the best magazine that he can for a few hours. The office is good for that sort of thing. It’s also a nexus of gossip for the entire wizarding academic world. Albus is privy to all of the latest and greatest speculation on the Black family’s mutual adultery or Harry Potter’s eligibility as an aging but accomplished bachelor.

 

The rest of the week, he and his coworkers mail one another their designated sections of the magazine in a byzantine, circular peer-editing process. Ariana complains that she can barely think for all of the constant flapping of owls in and out of the house as revisions are constantly made and repeatedly exchanged, but if she really minded then she’d stop feeding them her toast.

 

As a result, the most adventurous travel Albus does in his average week is a spontaneous trip to The Leaky Cauldron when he can’t stand the thought of eating his, Ariana’s, or Aberforth’s cooking that night. So yes, there are moments where he aches to step outside of his life for a moment, to discover, to travel.

 

Apparently, he’s not the only one. He’s heard intriguing rumors of a wild phoenix, its coat a deep crimson with a long golden tail, that has strayed far from its native mountains in the East. It has nested instead on a high tor in Dartmoor, living off of sundews and clover, making a sport of antagonizing the local kestrels and nightjars. Simply put, it sounds like a majestic beast that Albus would dearly like to meet.

 

*

 

Merope Gaunt dies on December 31st, 1907, without fanfare or prior warning. Albus gleans the bare minimum of facts from her obituary: a difficult childhood, an upstart career in Potions-making, and a sudden, fatal case of Dragon Pox. He attends her funeral the day after New Year’s. A reception is held afterward in Merope’s tidy little one-bedroom house in Cornwall, just as far from Little Hangleton as she could possibly get without leaving the island altogether.

 

Bathilda Bagshot is there and so is the owner of Slug & Jiggers; Tessie Prewett and Muriel Prewett and their mother Edna; Kimberly Diggle, who'd dragged her older sister Doris along; and the McKinnon sisters, too. Harry Potter must be somewhere around here, too--for all intents and purposes the mourner in chief.

 

Albus pours himself a glass of elderflower wine, listening to the mutterings of _such a tragedy!_ and _so skilled a Potions Mistress_ and _just 18._

 

He stations himself beside Miss Bagshot, the both of them pretending to listen to Edna Prewett’s story about her husband's Kneazle burgling her favorite emerald brooch. Albus does, however, happen to overhear Doris and Kimberly’s conversation by the couch: “I heard she got ten Howlers last week, loud enough that her neighbors in Tinworth complained about it.”

 

“ _I_ heard that her father waited for her in The Leaky Cauldron last Monday, coz he knew she’d walk through there on her way to Slug & Jiggers. She stepped one foot through the door and he was screaming in her face about how she had no right to call herself a witch, that leaving her family made her lower than a muggle.”

 

“My God.”

 

“ _Yes._ And he was ugly as anything, but you could tell he was really her father because he had her nose and all, but it was horrific, the whole thing was just horrific.”

 

There is a sigh, and then, "And after all that, she must have known that there wasn't a single place in Britain where she'd be safe. The stress of it must have made her even more vulnerable to Dragon Pox, the poor thing.”

 

“It’s all been so unbelievably quick. You’re friends with a woman one minute, and she’s dead the next.” They clink their glasses together and knock back their drinks.

 

And then Harry Potter walks out of the kitchen with a new bottle of wine in one hand and a stack of letters of condolence in the other. Through the gathered Potions Masters and a gaggle of tall, pale men with dark hair that Albus rather suspects are a string of lovers, their eyes lock.

 

Perhaps it’s the embarrassment over the altercation with Gellert and perhaps it’s the lingering discomfort with being sweet on the Headmaster of Hogwarts, but Albus hasn’t seen much of Harry Potter in recent years, somewhat by design.

 

Albus likes to think he’s grown wiser in the interim, but he doesn’t feel a bit wiser when, the moment Harry Potter looks at him, Albus can only think that his eyes really are the very greenest green that he’s ever seen.

 

The Headmaster crosses the crowded room to set the wine on the table and remarks to Albus, “It’s good to see you.”

 

“The same to you,” Albus answers, and then, “Would you care to step outside? I could do with a little fresh air.”

 

Headmaster Potter nods and they silently head out the back door, over Merope’s creaking porch, and into her prodigious garden, lush under the overcast sky. They gravitate toward privacy, meandering away from the potions apprentices tutting over the Horklumps encroaching on the herb patch after only a couple days of its mistress’s absence. The short one, who Albus is tempted to say is Adrian Figg, exclaims, “Look at all of this moondew! I’ve never seen so much in one place, and half of it’s already been plucked.”

 

“Well, Draught of the Living Death was her specialty, you know,” says the other.

 

“Moondew’s in the antidote, too, isn’t it?”

 

But then their voices are swallowed by the leaves as Albus and Harry amble up the small hill behind the garden, carpeted with thick yellow grass. They stop on its crest, from which they can see the blue band of the ocean on the horizon and they can feel the wind buffeting up from the coast.

 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Albus says, meaning every word of it.

 

Headmaster Potter nods his thanks. Albus stands next him, struggling to think of anything other than the fact that he’s taller than the Headmaster of Hogwarts now. He marshals all of his social acumen and manages to ask him, “How do you feel?”

 

“Relieved,” Harry says quietly.

 

“Yes, well, it was better for her not to suffer,” Albus soothes, but somehow it just makes Headmaster Potter turn his face aside, turning and to stare out at the shoreline in the distance.  

 

Albus tries to summon some meaningful words. “She’s… in a better place now.” He claps a hand over his own mouth, appalled at offering such an unhelpful cliche to a man who must have heard it a thousand times by now and must know exactly how empty it is.

 

But Headmaster Potter just keeps watching that dark strip of blue dotted with white sails and says, “Yeah. She is.”

 

Albus isn’t sure how to respond to Potter’s sobriety, but it can’t spell anything good. If Albus has learned anything about mourning over the last ten years, it’s that you shouldn’t do it alone. Perhaps he should invite him over to tea sometime soon?

 

“Headmaster...” he begins, unsure of the words to use.

 

Potter finally turns to look at him. “I think it’s time you call me Harry, don’t you?”

 

“Harry,” Albus says firmly. “Come to mine for tea tomorrow.”

 

“Alright,” Harry agrees easily.

 

*

 

The next day, Harry Potter comes over for tea. They all gather in the drawing room and munch on cucumber sandwiches and an abundance of orange scones. Surprisingly, it had been Aberforth who made the scones.

 

Harry eats three and compliments them generously. Aberforth, who has no sense of decorum even in his finest moments, demurs, “Can do it entirely with spellwork, which is the only reason I can make them. Batty Bagshot gave me the recipe.”

 

Ariana and Albus whip their heads around to glare at him until he throws his hands up and says, “I mean, the _Honorable Madam Bagshot._ ”

 

Bathilda, leaning on the sill of the open window, comments, “It’s _Professor_ Bagshot, actually.”

 

“Professor! You’re more than welcome to our tea and scones, if you don’t mind putting up with the company,” Albus says, already moving toward the front door.

 

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Miss Bagshot says, coming round to join them in the drawing room. Once they all settle back into their seats, she turns to Albus and asks, “So how’s the magazine doing these days?”

 

Albus, who likes to keep a fair and balanced view on the world of periodicals regardless of where his personal loyalty lies, answers, “Well, we’re competing with _Witch Weekly_ for the attention of the general public. I know who I’ve got my money on.”

 

“ _Witch Weekly_ produces quality content,” Ariana contends. Then she smooths her skirt and amends, “If you skip past all of the celebrity gossip.”

 

“Celebrity gossip?” Headmaster Potter asks, as if it’s news to him that there are celebrities in the world. It’s 1907, for Merlin’s sake; there are more of them than ever.

 

Ariana blinks and answers, “You ought to know. You feature in it regularly.”

 

Headmaster Potter casts a mournful look down at his own shoes as if he’s reliving a particularly unpleasant memory, saying, “Oh. I hadn’t realized.”

 

“Most of it’s quite complimentary!” Ariana reassures him.

 

“Okay,” Harry says, clearly not interested in being cheered up.

 

Miss Bagshot polishes off her cucumber sandwich and comments, “In any case, Ariana is quite right--it’s not all celebrity tripe all the time. In fact, they’ve just started a new annual feature where they announce which Hogwarts house first-year students got Sorted, and they publish it the day after the Start-of-Term Feast.”

 

The conversation naturally turns to whose children have been Sorted where in the newest crop of first-years. Just this past September, little Horace Slughorn had gone to Slytherin. “Big surprise there,” Aberforth mutters. “Seven years later and I’m still not over the fact that Muriel Prewett went to Hufflepuff.”

 

Miss Bagshot shakes her head and says, “It really makes you wonder how the Sorting Hat does it.”

 

“I’ve been wondering that myself, as of late,” Albus says. Aberforth and Ariana can spot the jargon-mired conjecture a league away and promptly begin discussing what they should be stocking the birdfeeder with. Miss Bagshot, who adores history and Transfiguration and very little else in the way of magical theory, turns to offer her own opinion on luring birds in with melon seeds.

 

Harry, though, Harry looks interested. “Yeah?” he prompts.

 

Albus launches into the topic that’s been on his mind for a few weeks now: “I’ve been wondering if the Sorting Hat could perform its job effectively on an Occlumens actively seeking to obstruct it. That is to say, Occlumency was crafted with Legilimency as its natural counterpoint. Despite that rather narrow aim, proper Occluding can fend off the influence of Veritaserum, possession, and, in certain cases, the Imperius Curse.”

 

Harry nods, undoubtedly familiar with all of this. So Albus takes a bite of his scone and continues, “However, these are all things that seek to influence and shape the mind. The Sorting Hat simply wishes to _look_. Offhand, this is referred to as Legilimency, which literally means _to read the mind_. But can we truly call it Legilimency when it is not being performed by a witch or wizard, but instead by an artifact imbued with the intelligence of four long-dead individuals? Is it compliant with all that we know of Legilimency? It’s perfectly possible that Occlumency is entirely unsuited to protect against a magical object with no ill will--or, in fact, any will at all beyond its drive to Sort and sing. On the flipside, the founders would’ve been familiar with Legilimency and perhaps modelled the Hat’s function on it. In that case, the Hat may be constricted by Legilimency’s basic tenets and subject to the same barriers.” Albus turns his tea around his hand, concluding, “We’ve simply got no way of knowing, since no first-years arrive as accomplished Occlumens.”

 

“Well, I wouldn’t say we’ve got _no_ way of knowing,” Harry answers meaningfully. They stare at each other across the coffee table. Then they rise at the same moment, making for the fireplace and the pot of Floo powder above it.

 

“Where are you going?” Ariana cries, always sad to see a tea party cut short.

 

“To test a theory,” Harry says. “We’ll be back within the hour. Is that alright?”

 

“Alright,” she sniffs, and then stipulates, “But only if you bring back some of those mint humbugs that my brothers keep howling about!”

 

“Deal,” Harry says, and then they whisk themselves away through the Floo, straight into the Headmaster’s office. It’s every bit as bright and welcoming as Albus remembers, but the piles of parchment on the desk are taller than ever and the pot of wormwood on windowsill seems to have been picked clean.

 

“Right,” Harry says with a smile, “let’s get you Sorted.” Harry actually pulls out the traditional Sorting stool from a hidden closet. Until now, Albus hadn’t even realized that it was always the same one.

 

Albus, who is physically incapable of doing things halfway, closes his eyes and takes a moment to do a perimeter check of all his mental fortifications. Then he opens his eyes and gives a nod to Harry, who brings the Sorting Hat forward and holds it over Albus’ head.

 

The brim closes over his eyes, his head still too small for such an enormous hat. Suddenly, there is the wry, dry voice of the Sorting Hat filling his head: “Well, this _is_ odd.”

 

The next three minutes are a little strange for all of them. When Albus at last pulls the hat off, Harry’s already got a basket of mint humbugs sitting on his desk and a question on his lips: “How did it feel?”

 

Albus drags a hand through his hair to straighten it and says, “A bit like an ice cream headache, honestly.”

 

“Could it Sort you?”

 

The answer: kind of. The Hat categorically refused to formally announce the name of Albus’ house when it’d already done that once. And it did, in fact, recall their first meeting. It knew his name on contact, his brother’s too. It could also pick up all kinds of new information about Albus, but it was much more vague this time. It could, for instance, identify his general personality traits accurately, but it couldn’t root through his memories to provide specific, persuasive examples like it normally would. Albus explains all of that, concluding, “You know how it loves to quote your own words back to you.”

 

Harry ruefully agrees, “I really do.”

 

To which Albus of course has to ask, “Have you ever… put it on?”

 

Harry places the Hat carefully back on its high shelf and says, “I’m sure you know what it’s like when you just burn to have a question answered.”

 

“I really do.”

 

*

 

After that, teatime with Harry becomes a regular event at the Dumbledore house, with Miss Bagshot dropping in when she has the time.

 

That May, when Harry is set to come over for tea for what must be the eleventh time, Aberforth takes one look at Albus coming down the stairs with his hair neatly tied back, and remarks, “Well, don’t you look pretty today, Miss Dumbledore.”

 

Seven months ago, Albus had looked down and realized that his beard touched his chest. He’d kept it well-groomed, of course, but goodness was it long. He started growing his hair out so that it would look proportional--figuring that the stress of life may well give him a bald spot like his father’s soon enough, so he might as well enjoy his full head of hair while it lasts.

 

It has nothing to do with trying to look more mature. It can’t. That would be pathetic, right?

 

He’s twenty-six, he’s a fully grown adult who’s past all of those juvenile concerns. Although, you wouldn’t think it when he answers, “That’s very kind of you. Thank you for sharing your opinion, Abby.”

 

Any further argument is forestalled by Harry’s arrival, and the man has got Hippogriffs on the brain. Apparently, meeting a Hippogriff had been a formative experience for Harry, one that he dearly wishes to bring to Hogwarts. Professor Ogden was proving resistant to the idea, however, unsure of how she’d to get ahold of a particularly sociable, wizard-friendly herd of hippogriffs in the first place.

 

It’s been a long time since Albus had last tried to offer advice to Harry, so he surprises himself by saying, “Harvey Ridgebit may be the man you’re looking for. He’s an influential dragonologist in London, and he knows dealers of all stripes. If he can’t help you, then he’s likely to know someone who knows someone, and so on.”

 

“Thanks, I’ll look into that,” Harry says, looking intrigued. “If you don’t mind my asking, how do you know him?”

 

“I, ah,” Albus clears his throat. “I’ve been rather curious about a wild phoenix that’s said to have roosted in Dartmoor. I mentioned it to Nicholas and he put me in touch with Mr. Ridgebit. Who then, in the way of these things, put me in touch with a magizoologist in the area who confirmed the rumors. Apparently, the phoenix has a wingspan at least a meter wide.” He takes a sip of tea and says, “I must admit, I’m tempted to go see it myself.”

 

Somehow, he’s put that classic secretive smile on Harry’s face again. “Yeah mate,” he says, “I think that’ll be worth your while. Let me get my coat.”

 

*

 

In short order, their household of three becomes a household of four.

 

Fawkes is Albus’ familiar, but Ariana is his favorite. Oh sure, Fawkes will let Albus pet him for hours and hours, but the bird will actually sleep in Ariana’s arms if she insists on it. She spends whole swathes of the day walking Fawkes around the yard and naming the night-flowers for him, or reading him  _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ the way Aberforth used to do for her when she was upset or chastising Fawkes for bullying their aging family owl, Elwin. So really, Albus doesn’t get much time with his familiar at all.

 

Whenever Albus is on the verge of a childish fit of jealousy over not having this _one thing_ to himself, he reminds himself that first, Fawkes isn’t a thing. Second, he reminds himself that Ariana’s affection for Fawkes is born of the bone-deep knowledge that no matter what she does, no matter how frenzied her magic gets, she can’t kill him in any way that will stick. Fawkes is a smart enough creature to understand that on an animal level, even if Albus struggles to grasp it himself.

 

*

 

Autumn arrives swift and cool, and the exchange of letters between Nicholas and himself triple in pace as they debate the possible undiscovered uses of dragon’s blood. On record, there’s seven--though never organized into a formal, finite list--but Albus really feels like there ought to be more like twelve. It’s so viscous, after all. Potions are all well and good, but couldn’t a tough substance that crystallizes when dried be used to scour one’s oven, or to remove a particularly stubborn stain from tile? Couldn’t you soak a sponge in it, freeze it, and use it as a pumice to remove verruca? It’s exceptionally bitter and metallic, too. If you powdered it, couldn’t it make an effective smelling salt?

 

Albus is sitting at his writing desk, his quill hovering mid-sentence over his latest reply, when he suddenly can’t be bothered to write another word about it. He needs to find out for _himself_ whether or not dragon blood can be powdered in the first place. So he hurries out of his room, displaced air rustling the pages of the open books covering his bed. He bangs down the stairs and rushes out the front door, hearing Fawkes chirp from somewhere deep within the house. Albus crosses the twilit street, fully intending to pop over to Miss Bagshot’s house to borrow a flask of dragon’s blood, if she has any. When she answers the knock on her door, however, she crows, “Finally!” and ushers him inside.

 

When he steps into Miss Bagshot’s livingroom, his first instinct is to sneeze. Due to all the dust, probably. It’s a house literally filled with history books--piled on each stair step, overflowing from the bookshelves, carefully tucked into the narrow place between the couch and the floor. Miss Bagshot says, “Sit, sit,” as she levitates a tidy stack of tomes on the First Goblin Rebellion off of the armchair closest to him.

 

They take their seats across from each other and she declares, “Now Albus, there’ve been a few things that I’ve been meaning to say to you, and I hope you can take them to heart knowing that I want the very best for you. I’m sure you’ll recall that I insisted on Ariana having a woman in her life to give her guidance, but that doesn’t mean that you don’t need one, too.”

 

Albus blinks. And blinks again. Then he nods, wanting very much to see where this is going. She raises her chin and says, “A man like Harry Potter's not going to stay single forever.” At his no doubt incredulous expression, she continues, “Or worse, he _will_ and it’ll have been your fault.”

 

This all feels very out of the blue until Albus realizes that he hasn’t had a moment alone with her in memory and she’s probably been sitting on this advice for years. “Have you… been waiting to get a moment alone with me all this time?”

 

“Well, yes!” she bursts out, as if it was utterly obvious.

 

Albus clears his throat and tries to respond as maturely as he can, under the circumstances. “I’m… thankful for your concern and appreciate that you have some perspective on the matter--”

 

"I study history," she snaps. "Of course I have perspective."

 

“--But I’m not sure that it would be wise for me to--”

 

"Forget wise! What do you honestly feel called to do?” He must look as fretful as he feels because she sighs, looks him in the eye, and commands, “Take some Felix Felicis first, or a fifth of plain old Firewhisky. Do what you need to do to get yourself there, but by Merlin, _take the leap._ "

 

Albus’ heart aches to even think of it. “Surely, being a student of history, you understand the numerous ways that this could end terribly.” She says nothing, waiting for him to finish his thought as he stares up into the rafters. Albus rubs his hands over his knees, hardly daring to believe that he’s discussing this aloud for the first time. “I… I’m not sure that it would be right for me to even approach him about it. I’d hate to think that he’d scorn me for--for any _oddity_ on my part, but no matter what happens, he’d never look at me the same.”

 

“Well, how do you want him to look at you?” Albus can’t even begin to form the words, but he can see it, he can see it as clearly as anything. Harry, in the low evening light, turning to give him that secret smile and looking at him warmly, fondly. Looking at him like--

 

“You two have something _special_ , Albus. Don’t squander it. Don’t delay by saying that the timing’s all wrong or that he couldn’t possibly feel the same. Wizards can live a long time, but never long enough that you can afford to pass something like that up.”

 

He opens his mouth, but she holds up her hand and he promptly swallows his protests, waiting to see what impossible piece of advice she’ll give next. “Like I said, I want you to be happy. And I have a tough time imagining that you’ll be happy until you get this off of your chest, one way or another.”

 

Embers pop in the fireplace, loud in the hush as she lets him turn it over in his head. Albus gathers the courage to ask her something that he’s been curious about for awhile now: “If nothing else... I suppose this means you’re not holding a grudge against me on Gellert’s behalf?”

 

“I don’t know what that’s about and I don’t _want_ to know,” she says.

 

“A rare statement from a scholar of your stature.”

 

”Yes, well,” she says, gathering her shawl around her. “Some things are better left to the imagination.”

 

“Well spoken,” he agrees, rising from the armchair. As she walks him to the door, he can’t help but say, “And thank you. For being candid with me. It’s… hard to want things that I feel I shouldn’t.”

 

Miss Bagshot pats him on the cheek and earnestly concludes, “Cleopatra was a muggle and Merlin was a Slytherin. Stranger things have happened, is what I’m saying.”

 

He walks back to his house in the early dusk, thinking: what right does he have pursue a man like Harry Potter? Not necessarily because he’s the uppermost authority of an illustrious school from which Albus himself has only recently graduated, although that certainly doesn’t help. But Albus is more concerned by the fact that there’s still so much that he doesn’t know.

 

Albus is daunted by the way that Harry recognizes his own mysteriousness as a necessity. The way that he has always, always acknowledged Albus as a person of integrity and import, even when he couldn’t have known whether or not Albus was worthy of it. The way that Harry will visit the Hollow’s old graveyard and stand in front of a patch of green grass for long minutes. It wouldn’t be odd if he were in front of a gravestone, but it’s just this empty part of the field, still unused. And he’ll be there for hours, sometimes. Albus is unsettled by all of that and more--the thread running through it, the sheer _unknowableness_ of the man.

 

But if Albus doesn’t try, if he doesn’t take the leap, if he squanders it… how can he say that Harry’s unknowable when he hasn’t even tried to prove otherwise?

 

*

 

It’s a full twenty-four hours later when Albus finds the courage to pull out his final Deluminator prototype, with every feature fully integrated for the first time. Albus stands in his bedroom with all the lights off, clutching it tightly and trying to convince himself to activate it.

 

He’s here, with his family, so anywhere else that the device takes him will be.... indicative.

 

He clicks it seven times in quick succession and light bubbles up from it, spirit-like and whispy from the font of this unassuming little device. And then, then comes the noise: faint humming, tuneless and idle, in a man’s unhurried baritone. Albus swallows hard, not knowing what to hope for. He sucks in a deep breath and clicks it one last time. The sphere of light floats away from the Deluminator, like a lantern on the breeze, and then it flies straight for his chest. He can feel the light sinking into him and wrapping around his heart, a sensation somewhere between waking up from a good sleep and what he’d always imagined apoplexy would feel like.

 

As if in a dream, he walks out of his room, pads down the stairs, and closes the front door quietly behind him. He is following, in what seems like a very literal sense, his heart. Albus crosses the street feeling completely outside of himself for the second time in as many days. The homing beacon seated within him has him unlatching the front garden gate, ignoring the promising yellow glow of the kitchen window and gliding around the corner of the house toward the back garden.

 

Like the clack of two magnets connecting or the soft thump of successful Apparition, Albus can feel it all snap into place as he sees Harry crouched before his own green little kingdom. Albus steadies himself against the fence, the reality of it hitting him full-force now. This is his treasure. This is where his heart is.

 

Harry turns from where he’s knelt to weed around the newest batch of seedlings and looks up at the harried wizard who’s just appeared in his yard. He glances down at the Deluminator gripped tightly in Albus’ hand and smiles, his eyes shining with emotions that Albus can’t even begin to guess at as he says lightly, “Now what could that be?”

 

He dusts his hands off and stands, seeming to need no real answer as he doesn’t press when Albus fails to summon a single word to his mouth. He’s got every right to be speechless, after all. He’s just confirmed that he’s in love and simultaneously lost any ability to lie to himself about it.

 

By silent agreement, they walk side by side around the enormous tomato patch and head in for a cup of tea, leaving the lingering twilit heat for the cool, clean space of Harry’s kitchen. Albus leans back against the kitchen counter, listening to the clink of tea-making and sugar-spooning. The Deluminator has grown slick in Albus’ grip from the sweltering night and sheer nervousness, so he pockets it before he drops it and shatters all of his hard work.

 

Harry offers him his tea in a little blue cup that Albus holds with both hands. The dream-feeling subsides a little further at the realness of the steam wafting around his face, the fact of the counter digging into his back.

 

He can’t help but notice the slight shake in Harry’s hands as he pours his own cup. “Are you alright?” Albus asks.

 

“I’m fine,” Harry says, taking a careful sip. “Haven’t gotten much sleep lately--been too busy convincing the board to let hippogriffs onto school grounds. Philomena’s finally come around. Now we just need the board to see it our way.”

 

“That,” Albus says, turning to Harry with eyebrows fully raised, “ _cannot_ be easy.”

 

"It's a bit like trying to teach trolls ballet," Harry admits, downtrodden.

 

"Well," Albus says, "At least there's historical precedent." They smile at each other with quiet, amused huffs before they look back down at their own cups. If Albus didn’t know any better, he’d say that Harry is just as excruciatingly aware of the conversation that’s about to take place as Albus is. But that’s superstitious and silly, so Albus takes a modest stab at telling Harry what he means to him, how he makes him _feel_ \--

 

“You’re ubiquitous.” Well. It might not be the heartfelt declaration Albus had imagined, but at least it’s true.

 

Harry laughs, “I’ve been called worse.”

 

“You always--you always fill me with _questions_ ,” Albus says, and it somehow comes out sounding accusatory.

 

“Such as?” Harry asks, looking terribly curious.

 

“Such as, how does a middle-aged man always manage to have more fun than me?”

 

Harry smiles down at the white tiles of his kitchen floor and answers, “A complete lack of shame or impulse control helps.”

 

“Yes, well. I find that impulses are too easily and preemptively crushed when one has an overly developed sense of shame.” Albus turns to look at Harry and, in some ways, it’s like seeing him for the first time all over again. Sun-warmed skin, wrinkles edging around the corners of his mouth, and eyes simply bursting with green. Though Albus still can’t believe he’s taller than Harry, it gives him an even better vantage point to observe that Harry’s hair is streaked with more grey now, and that he has yet to adopt that tired slump to his shoulders that belongs to all wizards long past their prime.

 

He wonders what Harry sees when he looks at Albus and takes stock of what time has made of him. Albus scuffs the heel of his shoe on the floor and concludes, “Perhaps the true challenge is to find a happy medium.”

 

Harry just sips his tea, humming in apparent agreement. Out of restlessness, Albus plucks a stray jar of raspberry jam off the counter and turns it over in his hands. “A gift,” Harry tells him. “I know it’s your favorite, but it’s too sweet for me. It’s yours, if you like.”

 

Feeling disproportionately touched by the gesture, Albus says, “In that case, it seems we’ll have to have treacle tart at our next tea party.”

 

Harry laughs and says, “How did you know it’s my favorite?”

 

“How did you know that raspberry jam was mine?” Innocuous as the question is, it leaves them just looking at each other. Not speechless, but wordless. Cautious.

 

Harry finally looks away from him, murmuring into his tea, “You’ve grown so much.” It’s a simple thing to say, but Albus can hear the layers and layers to it.

 

“Yes,” Albus agrees primly. “You ought to know. You helped.”

 

Harry is still bowed over his cup when he asks, “Did I? Help, I mean?”

 

“Yes,” Albus answers, aghast. How could he not _know?_ “You were like a Hinkypunk, leading me off my path and into a bog. A bog… of contentment.” Despite the tortured metaphor, Albus rather feels he’s gotten his point across.

 

Harry does look up, at that. “Even with all of the stuff your family’s gone through--?”

 

“I’ve made my peace with it,” Albus tells him. “All of it. How _selfish_ my father was to do something that he knew would take him away from us. How useless it was, how empty a gesture. How my mother raised Ariana, and how Ariana’s magic killed her as if... as if it knew who to blame.”

 

Albus crosses the kitchen floor, coming to stand before the kitchen window, looking out into the night. Harry slowly comes to his side, and the night is blotted out, looking instead like a solid wall of black with their faces transposed over it.

 

“I don’t know how you can stand being that mature,” Harry says, rubbing his palms over his jeans, which are streaked with grass stains and dirt. “It’s really something else. Have ever… have you ever thought about becoming a Hinkypunk, yourself?”

 

Albus is suddenly, horribly certain that he’s about to be offered a job. It’s no secret that Professor Jorkins is getting up there in years and Albus doesn’t want to be conceited about it, but he’s pretty sure he’d be high on the professor’s list of suggested replacements. But suddenly, it feels like just yesterday that Albus stopped being Harry’s student; he’s hardly going to become his employee until he knows one way or another about whether anything can happen between them. Nothing--not professional courtesy or fraternization policies or inconvenient power differentials--is going to get in the way of Albus finding out if Harry feels the same way about him. Except, perhaps, for his own hesitation.

 

In the moments of Albus’ quandary, Harry apparently decides to say: “If you’re ever interested in teaching at Hogwarts, just know that the position’s open to you--” Albus is already shaking his head vigorously, cutting Harry off with sheer vehemence.

 

“There are other affairs I must settle before I could ever even consider taking up such a post. Nevertheless, I am immensely flattered that you’d deem me up to the task.”

 

Harry laughs, loud and sudden, like there was never a question about whether or not Albus would measure up. It’s mesmerizing, really, the way Harry tosses his head back and puts his ridiculously white teeth on display. This time, it’s Harry who ends up shaking his head, muttering to the ground, “Oh Merlin.” And then, into his cup: “You’ve got something most wizards go their whole life without being able to put their finger on, you know?”

 

“And what might that be?”

 

Harry answers conclusively, “Charisma.”

 

Albus mulls it over, staring up at the ceiling. There’s a smile creeping over his face that begins to feel more like stupid-looking grin as he answers, “I’ll take it.”

 

“I mean, you’ve grown so _much,_ ” Harry says again, like he’s still trying to wrap his head around it. “You’ve taken wonderful care of your family and still found the time to make something of yourself professionally. You’re confident in your abilities, but you know that you’re not perfect--” Albus is so far from perfect that he can’t help but cover his face and laugh.

 

“It’s alright, though, that you don’t want the job yet. I know you’re busy. I’ve noticed your window lit up later and later, these days.” Albus is struck by the fact that he had paid it the slightest bit of attention. That he had spent time staring across the street, looking at that scrap of yellow light and wondering…

 

So Albus takes a deep breath and says, “I know I’m young--”

 

Harry cuts him off, a soft downturn to his lips. “The problem isn’t that you’re young. It’s that I’m _old._ ”

 

For all that Albus has been wondering about it for years, doesn’t dare ask him for a specific number on the off-chance that it’ll be discouragingly high and hearing it aloud will scare Harry off for good. Albus bites his lip, unsure of what to say. In the ensuing silence, Harry tells him, "It's your life, Albus. You've only got the one." The reality of it slams into him: he’s not going to get another chance at this. Harry means it another way entirely, of course, but it’s indelibly true. Just as he’s about to confess it, all of it, Harry clears his throat and says, “Which is why you oughtn’t read in dim lighting. It’ll hurt your eyes in the long run and you’ll need them for awhile yet.”

 

Conversely relieved to postpone his confession for a little while yet, Albus says, “I just know I'll need glasses by the time I'm thirty.”

 

Harry shrugs and answers, “I dunno. You could look good in glasses.” Crickets. The swish of Harry’s garden in the evening breeze. A dog barks somewhere far away. And then, slowly, Albus reaches out and slides Harry’s glasses off of his nose, careful not to brush against his skin. Then he places Harry's glasses onto his own face, blinking at the exceptional blurriness. Albus gets a good look at himself in the reflection on the darkened windows. There is a moment of silence. And then they both start laughing because, Merlin, they aren't a good fit at all.

 

Harry sets his tea down on the kitchen table before he spills it from juddering laughter and Albus hands his glasses back over, telling him, “They don’t quite fit my personality, I think.”

 

“Yeah,” Harry says, in a way that conveys full agreement rather than half-hearted acknowledgment.

 

And then Albus is impatient with all of this, the side-stepping and the fleshless intimacy and tender overtures. “You must know that I want you terribly,” he finds himself saying.

 

“I know,” Harry says. “And you have to have realized that I like spending time with you and that I think you’re handsome as hell and too smart for your own good.” Albus is caught between needing to have a lie-down and wanting to try to move the moon with _Wingardium Leviosa_. He feels like he could budge it a bit, with all of the things swelling within him.

 

And Albus, Albus accepts the inevitable. Perhaps it’s the Deluminator’s influence that does it, but he finds himself confessing, “I dearly wish you would kiss me now.”

 

Harry looks at him sideways. “You sure?”

 

“I’ve never been so certain about anything.” Harry smiles at that, turning to face him and stepping directly into his space.

 

Is this, is this really--?

 

It is.

 

Harry cups Albus’ face between his palms, thumbs gliding over his cheeks, just under his eyes. He has a gardener's hands: dirt under his fingernails, a roughness to his fingertips. Albus loves it. He loves the way he can hear Harry’s thumbs dragging over his cheeks, Albus’s beard scratching against his palms. He can feel Harry’s exhale feathering against his eyelids, so he opens them--wondering when, precisely, he had decided to close them.

 

Albus leans down as Harry pushes himself half a centimeter up and Albus is kissing him, kissing him imploringly, kissing him like he’ll never get to do it again. He rests his hand on the back of Harry’s neck, where the strands have been threaded together with sweat and hard work. Harry rubs his lips gently against his, arms belting themselves around Albus’ waist as their chests press together with a rustle of cloth. Albus can hardly feel anything but the absurd tingling in his lips and the hard, slow thumping of his own heart. The heat rising to the surface where Harry is touching him and the touch of cool air on his wetted lips when they finally manage to pull apart.

 

“This is a bad idea,” Harry tells him ruefully, just as breathless as Albus had hoped he’d be. “You’d know it, too, if you only knew the kind of luck I have.”

 

“I should think luck has little to do with it. We make our own fate, do we not?” At Harry’s nod, he concludes, “We are not without certain strategic advantages. We are quite literally closer now than we have ever been before.”

 

Harry proves his point by fiddling with Albus’ top shirt button, his fingers barely fitting in the space between them. “Guess we’ll just have to find out,” Harry says before ducking down to plant a soft kiss on his throat that makes Albus’ eyes flutter entirely against his will.

 

And then the kitchen fills with the sounds of the night moving on without them: may-bugs making themselves known, a phoenix calling from across the street, a  _Transfigurations Today_ owl hooting belligerently in answer. Light fills his chest again, to think that this is no ending at all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know. I know what you’re thinking. The staff of Transfigurations Today could have just used the Protean Charm to see each other’s suggestions in real time instead of ceaselessly mailing their edits by owl. Well, in 1885, a particularly careless writer spilled Zippy’s Quick-Drying Permanent Ink all over his copy of the in-progress issue and, since the original couldn’t be spelled clean, the whole draft was a blacked-out, illegible sheaf of papers. The whole edition had to be written from scratch just two days before it was due for release. So, no more Protean Charm. Never again. 
> 
> The Sorting stool sometimes has three legs and sometimes has four. I like to think that it’s always been the same stool and it’s just gotten eccentric in its old age. Some days, you just have to take a step back and appreciate that J.K. Rowling is the kind of woman to tell you how many legs a stool has.
> 
> And hell, I know that good old J.K. said Harry wasn't a Parselmouth after Voldemort was destroyed, but she had to clarify that in an post-HP7 interview so I'm not about to let it keep my hands tied. 
> 
> I didn't read The Cursed Child or the last thirty pages of Deathly Hallows because I am a deeply flawed human being and I never wanted the magic to end. So if there are any inconsistencies due to that, please let me know. But hey, feel free to say something flattering, too. Many, many thanks to my betas freakydeakymoonmagic and EarlGreyTonight.


End file.
